


Sex, Drugs and Sudden, Violent Comedy

by Nyssa



Category: Monty Python RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-28
Updated: 2010-10-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 22:52:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/129990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyssa/pseuds/Nyssa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael and Eric negotiate the pitfalls of '70s superstardom.  Set in April 1976, during Monty Python's three-week stint at New York's City Center theater.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sex, Drugs and Sudden, Violent Comedy

Eric was asleep. His long, tawny hair spilled over the nape of his neck in a tangled riot. His shoulder blades rose and fell slowly, peacefully. One arm hung limply off the edge of the bed. His face was buried, invisible, in his pillow.

Michael noted this last fact with concern. People shouldn't sleep like that; not drunk people, anyway. What if Eric got sick and suffocated? That had happened to Jimi Hendrix, hadn't it?

With some difficulty, he dragged himself to a half-sitting position and, gently if clumsily, took Eric's head in his hands and turned it to one side. When he could clearly see Eric's profile resting against the pillow, Mike relaxed and collapsed onto his back again with a sigh. He was so tired and hung over himself, he couldn't imagine what had woken him up in the first place.

 

*****

 

He had never seen Eric as wrecked as he'd been last night. He wasn't even certain he'd ever seen _Graham_ as wrecked as Eric had been last night, and that was a truly terrifying thought. The party had gone on and on and on, and Eric had just kept drinking and spliffing and God knew what; Mike hadn't been able to keep an eye on him the whole time, what with everybody who wanted to talk to Michael Palin, and flirt with him and laugh at him and shove drinks and joints into his hands and ask him to sing the Lumberjack Song (which he was beginning to hate almost as much as John hated doing the Silly Walk). He hadn't actually downed even a third of the drinks he was offered (and no more than a couple of tokes, and nothing else, really, nothing else), but that was enough to make him gradually lose track of Eric, who, he knew, was receiving the same treatment. When someone (God, he wasn't even sure who it had been, maybe Jonesy) had finally whispered in his ear that Eric perhaps needed some looking after, he had hunted through the dissipated crowd until he found his lost lamb, barely conscious, leaning heavily against the impressive bosom of a red-haired girl who Mike vaguely remembered had been snuggling up to _him_ not long before (not that he'd invited her to).

"He passed out!" the girl explained brightly, as Mike struggled to extricate Eric's nose from her cleavage. "Nudge, nudge, wink, wink, know what I mean, know what I mean?" With that, she burst into shrill peals of laughter, rousing Eric, who looked round wildly before his eyes managed to focus on Mike. "Ah," he said, and grinned sloppily. "Michael Palin, Esquire. 'm pleased to make your acquaintance, y'r lordship, ver' happy to find m'self in the capable hands of such a... such a..." He pitched forward, and Mike took a step back, grunting with the effort of holding him up.

"...such a smashing bloke," Mike finished for him, under his breath, as he half dragged, half carried Eric through the crowd to the door. "Such a prince amongst men. Such a bloody _nice_ fellow."

Thank God the party was in the ballroom of their hotel. Mike didn't know if he could have coped with a taxi, a limo, or any other form of transport that would take longer than an elevator and require more explanations. As it was, he had to ride up an interminable number of floors while supporting an almost dead-weight Eric (who was mumbling unintelligibly and breaking into slurred snatches of the Kinks' "Lola") and at the same time trying to remain upright himself. Finally, he simply slumped against the wall, pulling Eric with him, and shut his eyes against the too-bright lights of the flashing floor numbers.

And then at last the doors opened. He coaxed a suddenly sullen Eric out of the lift, and after an adventurous trip down the corridor (Eric having taken a wild, off-balance swing at him when Mike commented, perhaps too sharply, on his stubbornness; the result was a horizontal Idle and an untouched but further inconvenienced Palin), they were inside their room and Mike felt like offering up a prayer of thanks. By this time his head was spinning nauseatingly, a change from the more pleasant rotations he had enjoyed earlier in the evening. He locked the door and sank back gratefully against it. Eric was still in his arms, and had slipped without warning into a far more compliant, even amorous, mood. He giggled, and pressed himself against Mike, crushing him between his body and the door.

"Couldn' wait t' get me up here, eh, mate?" he whispered. "Oh, I know yer, I know jus' what y' want. Well, never y' worry, you'll get it. Give us a kiss, pet..." He captured Mike's mouth with his own, slipped a hand into Mike's trouser front, and Mike's brain began to hum with the effects of this new intoxicant. Eric was an unpredictable, drunken bastard -- at least at the moment -- but Mike loved him. And he felt so bloody wonderful, Mike wanted to pull him down to the floor and have him right now. The fifteen feet or so between them and the bed seemed suddenly a mile.

He was moaning with need, meeting Eric's clumsy kisses hungrily, running impatient hands over the fabric that kept Eric's lovely arse from him, when Eric suddenly reeled in his arms, broke their kiss, and slid quietly to the floor, unconscious.

Michael stood for several seconds longer, breathing hard, biting his lower lip, and trying manfully to keep the phrase "blue balls" from entering his mind, or, having entered, from taking root and festering. Then he stooped, caught Eric by the armpits, and dragged him across the carpet to the bed, where he lifted him (his back was beginning to ache from the strain) and dumped him, not gently, onto the lovely, soft, king-size mattress which Eric, sod him, had insured they would make no other than mundane use of tonight. He removed what remained of Eric's clothes (he'd already relieved him of his shirt during their aborted tryst), arranged the pillows, and pulled the covers up to his chin. As for himself, Mike was tempted to sleep in his clothes, but after a moment's indecision he made himself strip, use the loo, and even take two aspirin and a swig of mouthwash, reminding himself dimly that he would feel better in the morning for having done so. Then he slipped naked into bed, checked to make sure Eric was still breathing, and dropped into a black well of oblivion.

*****

 

And now Mike lay quietly, unable to go back to sleep, though God knew he wanted to. His brain was fuzzy, his stomach restless, his mouth drier than a piece of old leather. And if this was the way _he_ felt, God help Eric.

After a futile few minutes of sheep-counting, he forced himself out of bed and into the toilet. From there, he shuffled to the door of the suite, cracked it, and retrieved the _New York Times_ that lay outside. He carried it back to bed and turned to the entertainment section, where he was greeted by a headline that blared "'Beatles of Comedy' Conquer America" and a photo of an eye-rolling Eric elbowing Terry in the ribs onstage last night. "Messrs. Chapman, Cleese, Gilliam, Idle, Jones, and Palin are proving to the world that their peculiarly English (and just plain peculiar) brand of comedy translates hilariously well to a U.S. of A. hungry for something completely different."

Mike sighed. Did they always have to list the names in alphabetical order?

He was in the midst of berating himself for that churlish thought (for fuck's sake, you get called the Beatles of comedy, you don't whinge about billing) when Eric suddenly groaned and shifted in the bed beside him. Michael dropped the newspaper and patted him lightly on the shoulder.

Eric recoiled violently at his touch, rolling over and staring up at him with wide, bloodshot eyes. "Who ---?" he began, before seeming to recognize Mike. He closed his eyes and let out a gasping breath before collapsing on the pillow.

"Just me, I'm afraid," Mike said quickly. Eric's reaction had alarmed him. "Raquel Welch sends her regrets."

Eric rubbed his face with hands that shook. "Dream," he muttered. "Bad dream."

Mike gave him a worried look before making for the toilet. As he was returning with aspirin and a glass of water, he saw Eric sitting up in bed, holding his head with both hands and swaying slowly from side to side. Mike passed him the tablets without comment and held the glass for him as he drank. Eric's whole body was trembling. Mike ran a gentle hand over his back in what he hoped was a comforting fashion.

"I'll ring for room service, for some coffee --" Mike began, but stopped when Eric's face went ashen.

"No coffee," he said hoarsely. "Nothing. Can't bear it."

Mike shrugged helplessly. "Well, I'll leave you be and let you get some more sleep; we don't have to be at rehearsal for a while yet --"

Eric caught him by the arm. "No, don't want to sleep. Just -- just stay here and talk to me; distract me. Please."

Mike stared at him. Talking was usually the last thing on Eric's mind when he was hung over. Or, for that matter, when they were in bed together. "What d'you want to talk about?"

Eric shuddered, so pathetically that Michael reached for his robe hanging on the bedpost and draped it over his friend's shoulders. Eric pulled it tight round him and gave him a faint smile of thanks. "Oh, anything. Anything and everything. Last night. Anything, really."

Mike considered. "Um, well, it was a smashing party. Good time had by all, as they say. Jolly good. Plenty to drink. Plenty of -- everything. A pity if you don't remember."

Eric looked searchingly at him. "I remember some things. Some girl was..." He trailed off. "Was I having it off with some bird in a closet or something?"

Mike cleared his throat. "I really don't know. I, erm, lost your scent for a while."

"Ah." Eric attempted a laddish grin. "You got a bit loaded yourself, then."

Mike felt his face redden slightly. "A bit. Look, it was a party! Everyone in the place was smashed out of their -- "

"I know, I know -- "

"I've just as much right to --"

"Mike, I never said you didn't." Eric sighed and rubbed his eyes.

Mike subsided, miserably. What the hell was wrong with him? Eric felt like bloody hell, was shaking like a leaf and afraid to be alone -- and he was shouting at him.

He laid a tentative hand on Eric's knee. "I'm sorry -- love." The endearment came a bit hesitantly; Eric didn't usually want to hear those things with the lights on, so Mike had trained himself not to say them.

Eric covered Michael's hand with his and squeezed, briefly. "I probably tried it on with every woman there. I just don't remember, that's all." He stopped abruptly, as though a thought had just struck him. "Christ. I hope I didn't try it on with any _blokes_."

Mike shook his head. "No, definitely not. Somebody would have said something." He ransacked his memory frantically. _Had_ somebody said something? He didn't think so, but...

Eric broke in on his thoughts. "Did you?"

Mike blinked. "Did I what?"

Eric picked busily at a loose thread in the blanket. "Have it off with anyone."

Mike stared at him in disbelief. "You think I -- "

"Didn't say I thought so." Pick, pick, pick. "Just asking, that's all."

"Listen, my fine lad, I'll have you know I watch over _you_ at parties! I haven't got time to -- "

"You said you lost me for a while."

"Yes, but I wasn't -- I didn't -- I --" Mike faltered to a stop and hung his head. "You know I only fancy you," he finished lamely.

"I know you fancy me. Doesn't mean you can't fancy other people, too."

Mike scowled. "Well, I don't."

Eric lay back on the bed and covered his eyes with an arm. "Superhuman, are you?" He sounded very tired.

"What -- what the bloody hell are you on about? I'm in love with you!"

"Yes, well you know what they say -- all holes are alike in the dark." Eric lowered his arm and gazed up at the ceiling as though fascinated by its unique beauty. "All cocks, too, I imagine."

Mike stared at him for a moment longer, and then turned away. "I'm off, I am. I don't have to listen to any more of this bloody..." He stopped, struggling to get his voice under control, but it still trembled when he spoke again. "Just because you, mate, want to fuck everything with a beating heart doesn't mean the rest of the world can't exercise some, some -- restraint -- some modicum of, of -- oh, hell."

He started to rise, but Eric shot out a hand and gripped his arm. Mike jerked free and stood, and Eric spoke in his pepperpot falsetto. "Oooh. 'His strength is as the strength of ten because his heart is pure.'"

Mike ignored the Galahad reference. He said quietly, "I told you I love you, and if you want proof, it's this. You'd be lying across the room with your bloody teeth down your throat if I didn't."

Eric sat up abruptly, as though suddenly recalling something forgotten. "I tried to hit you last night, didn't I?" The mockery was gone from his voice.

Mike was caught off guard. "Yeah. You swung at me and I ducked -- " He stopped, amazed by the expression on Eric's face. "Look, it was nothing. You ended up flat on your arse, you couldn't have hit the broad side of a -- "

"But I tried. I did try." Eric looked down for a moment, and then back up at Michael. "You see, Mike? You see?"

Bewildered, Mike shook his head. "I don't know what you're trying to say."

Eric sighed heavily. "Come 'ere." He patted the bed beside him.

Mike sat down cautiously. Eric's strange behavior was making him very nervous.

"What I'm trying to say is this. I love you, but as you yourself so aptly put it, I also want to fuck everything with a beating heart -- "

Mike shifted uneasily. "I shouldn't have said that, I was upset, I know it's not -- "

"Will you shut up, please? That's a perfectly accurate description of my, er, existential dilemma. A very apt phrase. I quite like it, in fact." He laughed softly. "Everything with a beating heart. I may have it tattooed across my arse."

"Eric -- "

"No, listen. That's _my_ situation. If I get pissed enough, I can forget about it. I can forget everything I don't like if I get pissed enough, except for the bloody dreams, sometimes." He paused for breath. "But it's always there. Always. Whereas you -- well, you couldn't care less. You really couldn't, could you? And Christ, you could pull anybody. Any woman in that room last night would've had you down her throat and thanked her bloody stars for the privilege if you'd just said the word, and a fair percentage of the fellas, too. But you never said it. You never _do_ say it. I really am all you want, though fuck knows why." He paused. "I can't fathom that. I really can't."

Having no idea what to reply to this outpouring, Mike said nothing.

"And what you said a few minutes ago, about pushing my teeth down my throat. That's a load of pure stinking shit, and we both know it. You couldn't do that to me, and probably not to anybody. You just couldn't, it ain't in you. I, on the other hand, seem to have no qualms at all about it. If I could have a go at _you_ , of all people on the bloody planet -- and don't tell me it was because I was pissed. You could be completely out of your fucking brains and you wouldn't even think about it. You're..." Eric sighed. "You're a saint, mate. A bloody great saint. I don't know how you live with yourself."

He gave Michael a sharp look. "And don't cry."

"No," Mike sniffed, dashing a hand quickly across his eyes. "I'm not crying."

"Michael, you drive me insane, you really do. I think I can say that to you, because you know how much I love you." He paused. "Don't you?"

Unable to speak, Mike nodded. Eric had said it twice, twice, in the span of a few minutes. And they weren't even shagging.

After a moment, he cleared his throat. "It comes out in my writing."

Eric looked blank. "What does?"

"The violence, the hate, the -- lust. I express it that way. Those feelings -- I mean, they're in everybody. It's just a matter of how you express them."

Eric sighed and lay back on the bed, rubbing his temples. "I can think of at least five other people we both know and love who express violence, hate, and lust in their work better than you do." He snorted. "Some of them express practically nothing else."

Michael was stung. "That's not true! I mean, the Spanish Inquisition -- "

Eric laughed aloud. "Mike, the Spanish Inquisition sketch is some of the most brilliant comic writing I know of. It's bloody hilarious, but it has fuck-all to do with violence, hate, or lust."

"The -- the Homicidal Barber sketch, now that's terribly violent -- "

Eric propped himself on one elbow. "Jonesy's idea, wasn't it?"

Mike's cheeks burned. "Well, yes, originally..." He dropped his eyes. "The Lumberjack bit was my main contribution to it."

"Which is, I think we can agree, fantastic, but largely free of violence, hate, and lust."

"But it's got -- "

"Transvestism is not lust, mate. If you think it is, you've got a bit of learning to do about both, I'd say."

"All right! What do you want me to say? That I'm a pansy, a wimp, a -- "

"No, fuck it, no! You're just..." Eric's shoulders sagged. "Nice. You're just a nice bloke, Mike. You can't help it."

Mike sighed, defeated. "I know. Like you can't help being a bastard."

"Exactly! Spot on! It's in our genes, and in our backgrounds, the way we were brought up -- "

"Has it been worse for you lately?"

Eric's eyes narrowed. "Has what been worse?"

"Well, I mean, you've been drinking and -- everything -- well, rather a lot."

"Some days are better than others." Eric pressed his lips together for a moment. "Look, if you want to nag a bloke about his substance problems, nag Graham. I'm fine, really."

"All right," Mike said mildly.

"I mean it." Eric's voice had taken on an unmistakably menacing edge. "I'm not having you interfering with my life -- "

"Oh, just clean up after you, is that it?"

Eric's lips drew back from his teeth. "I never asked you to. I never bloody asked you to, and you know it! Fucking hell! Can't we have one conversation without you parading your fucking sanctimonious -- "

"No, we bloody well can't! Because I'm a bloody, fucking great saint, remember?" Michael shouted. And with that, he picked up the closest thing to hand, the empty water glass off the nightstand, and hurled it with all his strength at the opposite wall, where it shattered loudly.

After a moment of stunned silence, Eric spoke, in a voice that dripped with sarcasm. "Beautiful. Really glorious, Mike. An inspiring gesture. But a bit minor, don't you think? Want me to assist you in throwing the telly out the window?"

Mike stared at the broken glass littering the carpet. "I'll -- I'll clear up the mess. Don't tread on it."

"Oh, for the love of -- " Eric began, and collapsed onto his back again. "Forget it. Fuck it. Lie down."

Mike didn't move.

" _Lie down_."

Silently, Michael lay down next to Eric. Neither of them spoke for perhaps a minute. Then Eric sighed deeply and closed his eyes. "Christ, I'm dying for a fag. You have one?"

"No. I don't know. I'll look -- "

Eric caught him before he could rise. "No, don't get up. Never mind." He covered his face with his hands for a moment. "How do you feel?"

Mike shrugged. "A bit rough, that's all. The usual."

"No pukin'?"

"No."

"You're charmed, mate. I puked me guts out last night. I remember that event with painful, quivering clarity."

"Not whilst you were with me." Mike felt a rush of guilt. Eric should have been with him all the time, whether he wanted to be or not.

"Mm. Not sure just when it was. Early on, I reckon." He turned toward Mike suddenly. "You had some of that grass?"

"A bit, yeah."

"Good, was it?"

Michael managed a smile. "I'm no connoisseur, you know that. It always feels fucking amazing to me."

"But it didn't feel strange at all? Didn't blow your head off the second it hit you?"

"No."

Eric nodded. "Not all of it, then. That's what I thought."

"Why? Did you -- "

"Some of it was laced. Must have been. Don't know who gave me that particular joint, but it could have been anybody, of course. People just push it at you all day long, don't they?"

"Laced with -- "

"Smack." Eric spoke the word casually. "Coke couldn't have done it, and that'd be a bloody idiotic combination anyway. Had to be smack. I took one draw and that was fucking all it needed." He laughed, but without humor. "Good thing I was in the toilet at the time. Felt like a week's worth of dinners coming back."

Mike closed his eyes slowly. "Oh, Jesus. Oh, bloody hell."

Eric shrugged. "Nothing to worry about, really. I've only done it once before, with Keith last year at Earl's Court. Same thing happened then. I know I can't handle it. Wouldn't have done it this time if I'd known. It's like lightning when it hits, one way or the other. Either you book time in front of a loo, or you -- fall in love. I don't fall in love." His voice dropped suddenly to a silky whisper. "Except with Angel Knickers, here." He bent his head and kissed Mike's belly, just above the navel.

For once, Mike felt not the merest flutter of response. He pushed Eric's head away. "You could be dead. You could be bloody dead right now. You're not used to it."

"No, I'm not." Eric smiled. "But I'm not dead, either. In fact, I'm starting to feel much better. _Much_ better." He guided Mike's right hand to his groin. "See?"

Mike drew his hand back. "What happened after you finished pukin'?"

Eric sighed. "Went back to the party, got drunker than a fiddler's whore, pulled some birds -- or tried to -- came back here with you." He rolled his eyes. "Ah, Mike, it wasn't anything, really. I don't like it, and I don't plan to do it again."

"You didn't plan to do it last night. You got _dosed_. You might get dosed again."

"So might you." Eric's voice hardened. "I told you to let it be. I'll do what I please."

Mike stared at the ceiling. "Yes, I know you will."

They lay silently for a while, side by side but not touching, before Eric spoke again. "Mike."

Mike turned his head.

Eric's voice was subdued. "I'm sorry for what happened after we got back here last night. I mean, what _didn't_ happen."

Mike blinked in surprise. He hadn't expected Eric to have any memory of his failed seduction attempt.

He shrugged. "You couldn't even stand up by then. Not any part of you. Couldn't have happened any other way."

Eric sighed and nodded. "Too right. But I am sorry. It's a right bastard who'll get a fella's balls in a twist and then leave him achin'. You should take me apart."

"Oh, I couldn't do that," Mike reminded him. "Remember?" He adopted a high-pitched, fluttering tone. "You're sleeping with Cream Puff, the Magic Fairy. Use me, abuse me, tie me in knots. I love it all!"

"Ohhh, now, now..."

"Don't try to soothe me! We both know it's what you think!"

" _You_ said that. I just said you were a nice bloke. If you can't take a compliment -- "

"You didn't mean it as a compliment!"

"For God's sake, stop behaving like an old queen!"

"Why? That's exactly what we are! A pair of -- "

Eric grabbed his wrist in a punishing grip. "That is _not_ what we are." His eyes glinted dangerously. "Don't ever let me hear you say that again."

Mike pulled free and turned away on his side. Behind him, he heard Eric let out a long, exasperated sigh.

"Look," Eric said softly. "I said I was sorry, and I meant it. What the hell are we fighting about, anyway?"

Mike didn't look at him. "I'm not fighting with you. I'm not even angry with you, not really. I love you, and I wish you'd stop trying to hurt me, because it's not going to make me go away, you know. It's wasted energy on your part. Why don't you write something, for God's sake? Do something constructive for a change."

"Don't feel like writing." Eric's voice slithered into a lower register. "Feel like doing this." His lips brushed the nape of Michael's neck, oh so gently. "I'm not trying to hurt you, love." His tongue insinuated itself behind Michael's right ear, where it undulated slowly. "This doesn't hurt, does it?" he whispered.

Mike shuddered and closed his eyes. "Tickles," he breathed, and arched his neck to give Eric better access.

"Ooh, tickles, does it?" That's not tickling. _This_ is tickling." He slipped a hand under Mike's ribs and commenced a merciless assault. "Coochie coochie coo-oo!"

Mike shouted with helpless laughter. "Stop! God, Eric --"

"Coochie coochie coo-oo!"

"Please -- " Mike gasped. "Can't breathe...ahhh!"

Eric stopped suddenly and rolled Mike over into his arms, holding him while the last reverberations of hysteria died away. When Michael's giggles spent themselves, his face was buried against Eric's shoulder. He sighed contentedly, raised his head, wound his fingers into Eric's mane of hair, and kissed him. It was a very long kiss, and a very deep one.

When Mike finally pulled back, Eric ran his tongue slowly over his lips. "Fuck," he said softly. "'s true what they say. Make a bloke laugh, you can make him do anything."

Mike smiled and kissed him again, at the same time slowly and carefully climbing onto him until he was lying full-length atop Eric and feeling all self-control rapidly evaporating. He thrust against Eric's stiffening cock, moaned with delight, and pressed forward eagerly for more. Eric allowed it for longer than he expected, which excited Mike almost past endurance. And then, through the haze of heat and wanting and the dizzying rush of being free to rub against Eric's skin, bite Eric's neck, pin Eric down with his weight, he heard the husky, unsteady croon in his ear, just as he'd known he would. "Alright, alright. Jesus. Slow down, pet, slow down. Off you get."

He did, rolling off with the usual mixture of aching reluctance and soaring anticipation.

"Put out the light," Eric whispered.

Mike did, snapping off the bedside lamp and plunging the heavily-curtained room into near darkness.

Eric was a faceless black shape in the gloom. Mike couldn't see his hands, but he felt one soon enough, stroking his cock slowly, experimentally. He squeezed his eyes shut and bit down fiercely on his lip. If he begged for it, pleaded for it, or God forbid, demanded it, Eric would take forever, just out of pure bloody-mindedness.

As it was, he felt a soft gust of laughter against his skin. "Harder than Japanese arithmetic, you are, mate. Don't take much for you, does it?" He pulled gently again from root to tip, and Michael felt his stomach drop away. "I never will understand it, how you can save all this for me. Or why the hell you ever wanted me to have it in the first place."

Mike grasped for coherence. "My sterling character. My inherently generous nature. Jesus, Eric..."

"Shh." Eric placed his free hand briefly over Mike's mouth. "Feels good, does it?"

Mike groaned, softly, in his throat.

"If you'd put it about more, you wouldn't be so bloody desperate for it. Ever think of that?" He lowered his head and pressed his lips to the skin of Mike's inner thigh. Mike gave a strangled cry and arched toward him, unable to focus on anything but that hot mouth so close, so bloody close...

Agonizingly, Eric released him, using both hands to still Mike's thrashing hips. "Steady, steady," he whispered, in a teasing, if breathless, tone. "That's just what I mean. Fucking desperate. How d'you think that makes me feel? Being solely responsible for your, erm, sexual sanity. How long do you think I can handle all this on my own? I'm not very good with responsibility, you know that."

Mike barely heard him through the blood roaring in his ears. He grabbed frantically for Eric's hand, his head, whatever he could reach, trying to guide him back to his pleading erection.

Eric evaded him easily, pinning Mike's trembling arms to the bed. "But you like it, don't you?" he murmured. "You like savin' it up, gettin' all strung out and hard up and ready to scream for it, don't you? Anything else is too easy for you." He gathered Mike's testicles in one hand and rolled them gently. "Mad, if you ask me."

Michael gasped and writhed beneath him. "Didn't -- ask you -- did I? God, don't ever stop..."

Eric laughed quietly, and kissed a small circle around Mike's left nipple. "Got to stop sometime. Can't go on forever, can it? I mean, be reasonable, mate..." He slid downward suddenly and sucked Mike's cock into his mouth in one motion.

Mike shoved upward with a cry, and Eric instantly pulled back. "Choke me, and I'll stop. You know I will."

Mike shook his head frantically. "Won't -- I swear -- please..."

He heard the smile in Eric's voice. "You could, though, couldn't you?" He licked, once, across the head of Mike's penis, eliciting a wave of swearing from his victim. "You're more than a mouthful, mate. Remember how long it took me to get used to this? Still have trouble with it. But, anything for you. Anything at all."

He braced Michael's hips with his hands and returned to his task. Mike tried desperately not to push too much, though the thought of being as far down Eric's throat as he could reach was an overpowering one. He seized the notion, squeezing his eyes shut and imagining touching the back of that throat, feeling the heat, the glorious tightness, all along his length. But Eric was doing very well on his own. His head moved up and down, up and down, pulling steadily, harder, harder, until Mike could do nothing but come, and come, and come. He thrashed in the grip of it, wild with ecstasy, sobbing with relief. Somewhere on the far fringes of his consciousness, he heard Eric coughing.

He was lying on his back, still reveling in it, still gasping weakly for breath, still waiting for his thundering heart to slow and his trembling muscles to steady, when he felt Eric crawl up beside him and nudge him onto his side, arms encircling him from behind. Mike smiled a beatific smile and let his eyes drift shut. The world was such a beautiful, beautiful place.

He felt Eric's ragged breath against the back of his neck, heard him spit quietly, and then the long, calloused fingers were pushing with admirable gentleness inside him. "Don't even know if you need this, love," Eric whispered. "You're so loose. Knackered, are you?"

Mike smiled again, without opening his eyes. He moved his legs apart slightly and sighed a long sigh as Eric's fingers slid deeper.

"God, you're so ready. So fucking ready..." Eric's voice, Mike noted with quiet satisfaction, was beginning to shake.

Eric withdrew his fingers and shoved gently at him. "Come on, come on..."

Michael groaned a strictly token protest before rolling on to his stomach.

In a flash, Eric was plastered along his back, arms around his chest, weighing him down deliciously, imprisoning him in a hot cocoon of flesh. Mike squirmed with pleasure.

He felt Eric's cock rub hard against his cleft, heard Eric gasp.

Mike grinned, recklessly, in the dark. "Think you can keep that up? Feels a bit slack to me, mate -- "

As he expected, Eric growled and bit him on the shoulder. He yelped, half in pain, half in delight.

"Show you slack," Eric rasped, "show you..." He pulled Mike up to his knees and pushed forward, sliding in to the hilt in one stroke.

All the breath escaped from Mike's lungs. He knew he couldn't come again. He didn't even want to. It was enough to feel that fullness, those flames licking him from the inside out, feel Eric's heart pounding against his back, Eric's voice moaning, wordless, in his ear. He pushed back as far as he could, clamped down inside, and smiled as Eric swore. The smile dissolved into a gasp as his prostate was stroked, and tiny stars exploded behind his eyes. He fell forward, burying his head in the pillow, mouth open, eyes closed, and thought about nothing but that shivery feeling and the sound of Eric gasping his name as he came.

Eric lay on top of him for a perhaps a minute, panting and shuddering and breathing harshly against him. Michael yawned hugely. He couldn't think of a single reason to stay awake. When Eric at last withdrew from him and settled against him with a long sigh and a whispered "Christ, nothing feels as good as your arse" Mike was already asleep.

 

*****

 

The whole backstage area of the theatre echoed. Thousands of stamping feet, hundreds of American voices raised in anticipation, background music intruding from the PA, visitors laughing and talking excitedly in the corridors. Even with Eric's dressing room door closed, the general din was palpable. Rumor had it that Bob Dylan was somewhere in the building, heavily disguised. Michael and Eric had both searched without result.

Eric stared into the mirror, moving his lips soundlessly as he recited to himself the words of the first sketch he was in. He hated cue cards, had sometimes stumbled badly when reading from them, and now refused to use them at all. He considered it a point of honor to memorize every word and then trust to fate, ad-libs, and his fellow Pythons to get him through any rough patches that might present themselves. Not that there were many rough patches. Even when there were, the audiences seemed to consider them just another giggle. Eric wondered sometimes whether critical thinking might not be a dying skill.

At the mirror's edge he could see Michael, slumped in a chair, staring at the wall, drumming his fingers rapidly, unconsciously. Eric knew it was unconscious because the habit drove him mad, and Mike knew it drove him mad, and would therefore have been appalled to find himself doing it in Eric's presence. Eric got a grip on his patience before he spoke.

"Mike," he said mildly.

Michael turned his head toward him slowly, as though returning from a great distance.

"Your tits are on crooked. Come look."

Mike glanced down at himself, startled, then rose and came to stand at Eric's side, where he peered into the mirror and adjusted his stuffing to its proper proportions.

When he finished, Eric smiled. "Gorgeous, darling. Irresistible."

Mike gave his reflection a careful once over, and grinned. "It is, rather, isn't it?"

Eric laughed. Michael was always so wound-up before he went onstage, it was a triumph to get him to relax a bit. He wouldn't even have a drink or a smoke first to steady himself down, not even one, apparently preferring to work himself up to a jangling pitch of jumpiness until the last moment. But he was fine once he'd started his first sketch. If he was nervous onstage, you couldn't tell it. And afterward, he was more than amenable to relaxation. Just another manifestation, Eric supposed, of his feast-or-famine approach to work, fun, sex, and life in general.

Eric never got nervous; not anymore, anyway. He was occasionally shocked at how calm he was. Too calm. Comedy such as theirs required an edge, a frisson of uncertainty, some small shading of danger, and he had felt lately that it was getting harder and harder to find. Not that it wasn't good anymore. It was fucking hilarious, most of the time. But the thought of Monty Python ever becoming _safe_ \-- and himself along with it -- terrified him. He sometimes felt almost desperate to somehow shake things up, frighten people, do something outrageous for its own sake.

Restlessness, he thought. That's all it was.

A booming knock sounded at the door. "Mike!" came John's voice from the corridor. "You're in there, I take it. Let's go, you bastard!"

"Just a second!" Michael called back with a wink at Eric. "Let us get our clothes back on!"

They both laughed at the sound of John's muttering dying away outside.

"Kill 'em," Eric said, with a quick swat to Mike's backside. "Or don't come back."

"Right," Michael answered, his smile tightening again with tension. "See you in a few minutes." He slipped out the door, and Eric was alone.

He straightened things up on the dressing table, rearranging makeup and glancing again, quickly, at the script. He checked the jacket he'd worn to the theatre, making sure the notebook with the new sketch he was working on was zipped securely into an inner pocket. He took a small jar and a tiny mirror out of that same pocket, and with steady hands poured a thin powdery line across the surface of the mirror. He didn't use a straw or a bill, just inhaling it off the glass, breathing deep and tilting his head back until he could feel the blaze along every nerve ending. He closed his eyes and knew that when he opened them, they would glitter with a fine silvery glow. Then he put the jar and the mirror away, locked the door behind him, and headed down to the wings to watch Michael.


End file.
